Eight.
Abe Lincoln stands giving the Gettysburg Address.
Everyone is rapt except for one guy
in the front row who keeps raising his hand
and hopping up and down in his seat.
(IN A SLIGHT DRAWL) "Do you have a question, sir"--
that's actually how Lincoln talked;
I did a lot of research--
Lincoln says.
(IN A SLIGHT DRAWL) "Do you have a question, sir?"
"Wendy's Grande Chicken Bowl Combo," the man says.
(IN A SLIGHT DRAWL) "Uh, that's not a question," Lincoln says.
"Wendy's Grande Chicken Bowl Combo?"
the man says.
[LAUGHTER]
(IN A SLIGHT DRAWL) "I'm afraid I'm
unable to discern your purpose, sir," Lincoln says.
"I'm trying to pay tribute to the brave men who died here."
"Pay tribute to this, beardo-weirdo!"
says the man and presses a button on his chest
and suddenly is transformed into a giant
Grande Chicken Bowl Combo.
That is, a giant synthetic chicken product
shaped like a frigate with oars made of celery
and wafer-thin nacho sails.
Then the Grande Chicken Bowl Combo beats its wings and sails
and floats up around Lincoln's head,
ramming his top hat off, spraying him with salsa
from its mini salsa cannons.
"Anybody else think a great taste in poultry nautical treat
is loads more fun than this old fuddy?"
says the Grande Chicken Bowl Combo.
"I do," says General Grant.
"Me too," says Harriet Tubman.
"We totally agree," say the ghosts of several Union dead.
"Sandwiches for all!" says the Grande Chicken Bowl Combo.
"Great taste is what made America great."
"Not a bunch of yapping," says Mrs. Lincoln.
Cannons fire from the battlefield and scores
of Grande Chicken Bowl Combos begin drifting down
via tiny parachutes.
And the suddenly euphoric members
of the 19th-century crowd trample
Lincoln and the graves of the Union
dead to collect their rightful Grande Chicken Bowl Combos.
Even the Union dead are trampling their own graves.
One sad Union ghost missing a leg gets only part of a bun.
Suddenly, another cannon is fired.
The cannonball strikes the giant Grande Chicken Bowl Combo
directly in the chest, killing it instantly, covering
the spectators in a grotesque chicken nacho salsa spray,
pelting them with the dozens of the little edible plastic
sailors embedded as prizes in every Grande Chicken Bowl
Combo.
"Mr, President," someone says, "please continue."
As the cannon smoke clears, we see the orange / Grammy /
man briefly involved with a ding-dong / piles of mush /
penisless man coalition standing behind the cannon that
fired the shot that killed the Grande Chicken Bowl Combo.
President Lincoln nods his gratitude to the coalition,
shuffles through his papers, and continues.